


Gotta Have Some Hot Stuff, Gotta Have Some Love Tonight

by OriginalCeenote



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics)
Genre: Firefighter Clint Barton, Firefighter Natasha Romanov, Fluff, Gift Exchange, Gift for Hawksonfire, Lucky the pizza dog - Freeform, M/M, Matchmaker Natasha, Meet-Cute, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Paramedic Bucky Barnes, Pining, Surgical Technician Sam Wilson, Tall Clint Barton, We keep meeting at the same rescue calls because of our jobs, Winterhawk Wonderland AU, dunk tank, moderate smut, paramedic steve rogers, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:54:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21979150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: “We’ve got another call, Barton.”“Huh?”“Get back in the rig. Stop staring at Barnes’ ass.” Nat’s voice sounded more amused than impatient, and Clint realized that hewasstaring. Wasn’t his damned fault that Barnes was wearing those khaki Dickies pants, was it?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson, former Steve Rogers/James "Bucky" Barnes
Comments: 22
Kudos: 204
Collections: Winterhawk Wonderland





	Gotta Have Some Hot Stuff, Gotta Have Some Love Tonight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hawksonfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawksonfire/gifts).



> Happy holidays (whichever one you celebrate) to hawksonfire. I picked your firefighter Clint/paramedic Bucky prompt despite the fact that I know NOTHING about either field, because it was just too cute to pass up:
> 
> Firefighter!Clint/paramedic!Bucky + meeting at their calls and pining over each other _ Nat and Steve paired with Clint and Bucky respectively as their partners.

Clint swabbed the firehouse floor with the rag mop while the coffee brewed in the kitchenette. He shivered a little at the cold morning breeze, but it was May, and an hour from now he’d be complaining about the heat, and wasn’t that just a bitch. 

“I like watching you push a mop, Barton,” Nat teased as she went through the rig, restocking supplies and checking air canisters. “It’s a good look. Makes my heart flutter.”

Clint snorted. “I’ve seen your apartment. Only thing making your heart flutter is the fumes.”

Nat’s shoulders shook. “What? I’m hardly ever home.”

“People think my apartment’s bad,” Clint argued. “They haven’t seen _yours_. I vote we use it as the next training site, kiddo. We’ll relocate your neighbors if they haven’t already made that call-”

“You don’t get to judge me. I saw you eat a piece of pizza once that had been in your dog’s mouth.”

“Five-second rule.”

“That only counts if it’s hit the floor.”

“It had,” Clint offered, shrugging.

“God, you’re a heathen, Clint.”

“You lost your car keys for two days and finally found them wrapped up in a sweater that was stuffed into an empty KFC bucket. You admitted to me that the bucket had been in your room since Christmas. _Christmas_ , Natty.”

“Technically Christmas _Eve_ ,” she corrected him.

They heard the call about the car wreck off of highway 99 before they could settle their argument, and they pulled on their turnout gear.

“Wonder if you’ll run into a certain someone,” Nat suggested.

Clint huffed. “I’m working, here…”

“Sure, you are.”

“Focus on the job, Natty.”

“I’m multitasking.”

*

The ambulance rig pulled over just beyond the blazing red flares, and the paramedics skirted around the spray of shattered glass.

“Dispatch, we’ve got two victims on the ground. Two adult males.”

The fire rig’s water line was already charged, putting out the wrecked Camry’s smoldering flames; the car’s shell was missing the driver’s side door, telling Bucky they’d had to cut it off, He recognized Barton immediately, dressed in his full kit, and he suppressed the excitement building in his gut. Guy looked good in yellow, and Bucky was weak for that little smirk of his. Bucky nodded to him as he lowered the ambulance ramp and brought out the gurney.

Nat was already kneeling over the passenger, fastening an oxygen mask to his face. “Stay with me. It’s okay. I’m going to shine this light in your eyes.” Her tone was calm and gentle. 

“Rush hour traffic’s the worst,” Steve muttered as he climbed out of the ambulance carrying another O2 tank and med kit. “Hey, Romanoff.”

“Morning,” she replied. “He’s going to need a hard collar.”

“Got it right here.”

The road crew put up the warning signs directing drivers to merge into the left lane while the paramedics continued to stabilize the victims. Bucky assessed the driver, asking him his name and age, examining his pupils and taking his pulse. 

The woman driving the Navigator stood off to the side, weeping and trembling. Steve urged her to sit down while he assessed her, taking her blood pressure and gently probing small cuts on her face.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she rambled. “I didn’t mean to cut them off… oh, my God…”

“They’re going to be all right. My partner’s taking care of them, they’re in good hands. Please calm down,” he urged. She shook her head miserably.

“I was just driving to work…”

“I know. I’m going to listen to your chest. This is a pulse ox, I’m just going to put this on your finger. You’re looking a little gray.”

Steve Rogers had the demeanor of a priest and the face of a Boy Scout, so it was no wonder victims trusted him so quickly whenever he answered a call. 

“I’m doing all of this before my first cup of coffee of the day, Nat. The universe sure has high expectations of me.”

“This _is_ your morning coffee, buddy,” she corrected him. “That, and seeing Barnes looking so pretty today.” She winked at Clint and told him, “Quit drooling.”

“Don’t you tell me what to do.”

A second ambulance rig showed up, and they took the woman in the Navigator to the hospital despite her protests, firmly informing her that a fractured wrist, facial contusions and concussion were certainly severe enough to require medical attention. Bucky and Steve loaded their patients into the gurney van and quickly headed down the freeway, sirens blaring.

 _I really need to find the time to talk to that guy when we’re not working._ Except, Bucky reasoned, it was hard to get the chance to ask him because they were always _working_ when he saw him. And what was he supposed to do, walk up to him when he was going up on the ladder rig, tap him on the shoulder, and ask him, “Hey, wanna add me on Instagram? Feel like going out for a flat white coffee after this?”

Just… nah.

Bucky knew it might help if he used his grownup words and actually asked for what he wanted. There just never seemed to be a right time. 

They had all of a minute to chat, once, during a handoff in the ambulance bay when the fire crew brought in a couple whose vacation home went up in flames due to a faulty space heater. Clint looked rough, dirty, skin gleaming with sweat, and his spiky blond hair was crushed on one side from his nomex hood and helmet. He’d sweated huge patches through his dark gray tee shirt; his broad chest and narrow waist framed by the sturdy orange suspenders did things to Bucky’s insides. 

“The whole deck went up like a matchstick,” Clint mused. “But we got them out and managed to get their dog to the veterinary hospital.”

“That’s why you get paid the big bucks.”

“Maybe before taxes.”

Bucky huffed; once he paid rent, tuition, his internet and phone bills and put gas in his motorcycle, he pretty much lived on ramen and Hot Pockets. Once he finished his general ed and got into the nursing program, well. The future would look a lot brighter.

“It was a sweet dog, too. Springer spaniel. She was gorgeous. Ginger fur. Little freckles around her nose. Keep her on two liters of O2.”

“The dog?”

“Uh. The owner.” 

Bucky had gotten that distracted. He mentally slapped himself and got back on task, but it was hard when a guy he was constantly distracted by started talking about dogs like they were one of his favorite things. Bucky could easily picture him on a couch with a bigger breed sprawled across his lap. Clint just seemed… comfortable in his skin. Easygoing.

Nice. 

*

Heart attacks. Always seemed to happen first thing in the morning in suburban neighborhoods like these. The fire department reached the house first on the call; Clint hopped out of the rig in his station house gear, carrying the AED. Nat calmed the victim’s hysterical wife while they worked to stabilize him. By the third shock they delivered, he slowly came back around, and Clint heard the ambulance sirens down the block. 

_Please be Bucky. Please be Bucky. Please be Bucky._

But this time Rogers showed up with a slim guy with dark hair who worked efficiently as he interviewed the wife and helped Steve transfer the patient to the gurney. Clint read the name badge, “S. Lang.” Cute enough. Hazel-greenish eyes. Decent smile. But just seemed… not Bucky. Steve raised his blond brows and gave Clint what looked like a shrug as they continued to assess and treat. 

“Is he on any blood thinners?”

“We were told that he needed to be. Heart conditions run in his family. His doctor prescribed a statin that he isn’t taking…”

Steve tolerated the rambling laundry list of “all the things Bill isn’t doing that could have prevented this. Clint heard his long suffering sigh beneath the mask. 

The small living room decorated in fraying furniture and kitsch began to feel crowded. Both crews filed out, patient loaded onto the gurney while his wife promised to follow them in her car once she was dressed. She looked small and frail in the thin housecoat and slippers, eyes watery and bloodshot from the ordeal of witnessing his attack. 

“Hey. Rogers,” Nat hissed before she climbed back into the rig, “where is Barnes?”

“Home sick,” he explained. “Got the flu shot, so it’s not the flu, but he caught the respiratory crap that’s going around instead.” He climbed into the driver’s seat and waved her off. The gurney van pulled onto the street first. Clint pretended he wasn;t pouting as they drove back to the station house.

“You’re pouting.”

“Am not.”

“That’s a pout.”

“Leave me alone, Nat.”

“He was sick. Too bad you don;t know where he lives. You could bring him soup. And mop his fevered brow.”

Her green eyes glinted wickedly, and Clint reached over and shoved her, making her snicker.

“Mop his fevered brow… do you know how you sound?”

“Bet he’s on social media,” she reasoned.

No. Clint was _not_ going to stalk Bucky on social media. Heck, no. He wasn’t some psycho. He just had a crush. Which, given the person in question, was perfectly understandable.

*

“Fuck.”

“He doesn’t like shirts much, if his Instagram is anything to go by. Sure likes that motorcycle, though.” Nat was scrolling shamelessly through his feed. “James” Bucky to his friends. Actually loves dogs if these pictures of him volunteering at the shelter are anything to go by. Looks like he checks some of your boxes, Barton.”

“Can’t we stalk someone you like, instead?”

“Nope. This episode of the Dating Game stars you, buddy boy.”

Looking at the photos, what _didn’t_ this guy do? Lots of photos at the gym; apparently, he had a side gig as a personal trainer and was a face of his health club’s advertising and social media. The shot of him doing pull-ups with those legs hiked up beneath him, making that torso of his arch just right so that those abs popped out like a perfect twelve-pack… _fuck_.

“Put that away.”

“Somebody’s thirsty.”

“No. Somebody’s hungry. And...yeah, y’know what? I am thirsty. You promised me coffee.”

“You said you were going to order it with the app.”

“Just got everybody’s money and topped up my card,” Clint offered as they hopped into Nat’s Jeep Wrangler and headed to Starbucks. They drove through the order window lane and let the girl on the mic know that they were there for pick-up. She grinned and gave them a thumbs-up, taking in their fire station shirts.

“Lucky kept me up all night with the farts,” Clint complained.

“Quit feeding him pizza. You know that dog is lactose intolerant.”

“He loves it.”

“A good dog dad wouldn’t keep letting him eat dairy when it has that effect on him.”

“He’s fine,” Clint protested. They reached the window, and Nat read back their order to the server crisply.

“Two cloud mocha frosts, three caramel macchiatto’s, two grande white mochas, a flat white, tall Americano, and grande Americano.” Nat let Clint load the drink carriers into the backseat and he balanced one of them on his lap. He tongued up a bit of stray whip from the domed lid of his blended macchiatto.

“That’s not coffee. That’s dessert,” Nat accused. “I always ask them to make my drink less sweet.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I’ve watched you drink black coffee straight from the pot on any given morning, yet here you are, drinking that sissy, oversweetened monstrosity.”

“My coffee and I want to be alone. Don’t listen to her,” Clint crooned to the cup, stroking the sweating side of the cup and licking up another puff of cream seductively.

“That doesn’t look as hot as you think it does.”

“You’re not the one I’m trying to impress, so.”

“Do that again, and I’ll put this on my Instagram and tag James.”

“Sounds weird to hear you call him that. Just call him Bucky. Or Barnes.”

“Bet you’ve already got a pet name for him. Come on, Barton. Ask him out.”

“He might not be into me like that.”

“Hmmmmm.”

*

Steve glanced down at his duffel when he heard his phone ping from inside.

“You gonna spot me, Rogers?”

“Yeah.” Steve stood over Bucky and grasped the barbell at its center, giving a little assistance as Bucky pressed it up neatly from the center of his chest. His shirt was already saturated a darker shade of gray than it had been an hour ago, and his skin was ruddy and flushed, Bucky had his hair tugged back into a ponytail that was fraying with sweat and tendrils hung down around his face. Dimly Steve agreed with Bucky’s thousands of Instagram followers that he was ridiculously hot. Their friendship had “crossed that line” a little back in high school, but they wanted different things. But Steve knew how Bucky felt about Clint, and he teased him _endlessly_ for it.

“Gotta build up that skinny little bod of yours, Barnes. Barton will be able to curl you like a dumbbell.” 

“Fuck… you,” Bucky gasped as he struggled not to laugh, working his way through his third set.

“I’ll leave that to him, too.”

“Oh, my God… Rogers… don’t make me hurt you.”

Steve gave him an unrepentant look, smirking and ruining his Boy Scout image. Bucky huffed and Steve helped him restack the barbell on the stand.

“You suck,” Bucky rasped. Steve handed him a towel, and he swabbed his face and arms with it.

“Again, leave that to Clint.”

“He might not even swing that way.”

“Or he must might. Or he just might for a certain guy with ‘dimples like sugar bowls.’”

“God… are you still quoting that from my feed? Stop reading that shit!”

“Just preaching the gospel truth back to the choir.”

Steve rummaged through his duffel and found his phone, and he noticed the Facebook Messenger note and its owner’s familiar, gamine looks and bright red hair. Natasha Romanoff. Occupation: Firefighter and EMT. 

_Hey, Rogers. Tell me something. Does your partner like my partner? Like, does he ‘like him,’ like him?_

Steve snickered and shook his head, making sweat drip from his hair. Bucky made a face.

“Nasty, Rogers. You’re dripping everywhere.”

“Working harder than somebody.”

“Bullshit. Look at those puny chicken legs of yours.” Bucky was just talking shit; Steve ran five miles every morning ever since he discharged from the Army, and the entire Zumba class got distracted from their warmup jam when he walked by the window, releasing a hail of whistles. Steve in Lycra biking shorts would do that. 

He texted her back while Bucky wiped his hands and headed for the dumbbell stacks. _He won’t admit to anything if you ask him directly, but he checks him out. Name drops him once in a while. And I’ve definitely caught him checking out Barton’s arms. He has a thing for those._

He smirked briefly at her laughing emojis. _We missed your pal when he was off sick. Barton made sad puppy eyes for the rest of the shift._

Steve suppressed a cackle. Bucky’s brows drew together.

“What’s your damage, Rogers?”

“Nothing. Just… checking out the thirst tweets on your feed.”

“You’re checking out my Twitter, too?!?!” Bucky started a set of dead lifts. “Get a life, punk!”

“I live vicariously through you, so where’s the fun in that?”

_I suggested Clint wipe his fevered brow for him._

That sent Steve’s fingers flying. _This guy is a pain in the ass when he’s sick. He wouldn’t have wanted Barton to see him in that condition, but he wouldn’t mind Clint stroking his other parts._ Then he added, _I have that on good authority_.

“Work in a set with me, Stevie. I need you to spot me again.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

_Hey. Maybe you can help me set them up. I have this crazy idea that might make a few sparks fly. Wanna help a girl out?_

Steve texted back a quick _I’m in_ before cramming the phone back into his duffel.

*

Before Nat and Steve could even get their heads together, they ran into each other again on less crucial calls. A dog that almost choked to death on a tennis ball. Arson incident behind a bodega store. Another heart attack in an assisted living complex. They leaned over patients and hooked them up to equipment, occasionally brushing hands or bumping elbows. Steve and Nat exchanged knowing looks whenever it was time to go.

“Beat you back to the station,” Clint teased.

“You fire station punks don’t know how to drive,” Bucky challenged, and there was a gleam in his icy gray eyes that made Clint weak.

“Get that thought out of your head,” Steve said at the same time Nat ordered, “NO, Clint.”

They were no fun…

Bucky had a type, and it was tall, smart-assed, mouthy blonds, and Barton checked those boxes in a hot minute.

“You could just ask him out,” Steve urged when they stopped off at their favorite sandwich shop after work.

“Quit nagging me, Rogers. You could be checking out that Wilson guy in Surgery that you wouldn’t stop swooning over last week.”

“I can check him out and still mess around in your business and give you shit over liking Barton.” And Bucky wasn’t wrong; Sam was fine as hell, charming, dimpled, and rocked his surgical scrubs and powder blue caps.

It was just fun to give Bucky shit. Steve valued their friendship and wanted to see him happy, honestly, and he remembered what it was like to have feelings for Bucky Barnes. But… yeah. Maybe he felt a little pang at watching Bucky pine for someone who wasn’t _him_. It was time to step aside.

Or, in this case, give his best friend a little shove in Barton’s direction.

*

“Tell me again why I agreed to this?”

“To help all the little sick kids and improve the equipment and resources at the hospital.”

“I can’t just throw some money at it through payroll deduction?”

“This is better,” Natasha assured him cheerfully from her place on the ground.

“Then how come you aren’t up here?” Clint wondered aloud from his perch on the dunk tank seat. He was dressed in his work pants minus the boots, his suspenders, and his station house tee shirt, this time a white one with a red logo on the pocket. His long legs dangled, letting his feet soak in the cold water all the way up to his ankles. So far, he was dry, but Clint saw a bunch of middle schoolers lining up to pay their money and take their shots at him.

Steve and Bucky hovered on the periphery of the dunk tank attraction. “Wanna dunk him for charity?”

“Who talked him into it?”

“He didn’t need much convincing. It’s a hot day,” Natasha informed him. “What’s up, stranger?” She looked smug, also dressed in her station gear and looking fresh and dry. 

“Dunking a firefighter and letting the proceeds go to the new pediatric wing of the hospital? That’s not out of character for Clint to accept. He doesn’t mind getting wet. One of the perks of the job.”

She waggled her eyebrows at Bucky, who felt his cheeks heat up at the thought of Clint… _wet_. The connotations were endless. Bucky felt the flesh between his legs twitch with interest.

“So. James.” Natasha elbowed him. “Whaddya think? Barton was running his mouth again about how firefighters do it better than paramedics.”

“Do what better?”

“What do you think?”

“Hey! Were you talking shit, Barton?!” Bucky called out.

Steve snickered and bit his lip. This was going about as well as Nat had predicted it.

“There’s children listening, buddy!” Clint called back. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

The middle schoolers hooted and pooled their money to buy a dozen more balls, grabbing several of the big softballs out of the rubber barrel. Clint chuckled.

“Okay, guys. This isn’t Little League practice. Make room in line for the grownups!” His taunts made them try harder, and in each case, they missed.

“Barton’s enjoying this too much,” Steve said.

“Ya think?” Bucky said dryly.

Clint swung his legs back and forth and winked at Bucky. “La, lala, lalalalala,” he sang, continuing his taunt for the kids’ benefit, and also for Bucky’s.

“This is your opportunity,” Nat reminded him as she sidled up to Bucky. “Wanna get him wet? You know you want to.”

Bucky bit his lip.

Clint tracked that gesture. His mouth was full and pink, damned inviting, and it drove him a little nuts.

That tee shirt would be damn near transparent if Bucky dunked him.

And that target would be damn near impossible to hit if Bucky wasn’t his high school team’s star pitcher sophomore and junior year.

 _Wouldn’t it?_

Bucky grinned up at Clint as he dug into wallet, showing those dimples as he fished out a twenty and handed it to the volunteer who sold the balls.

Clint clasped his cheeks in his palms with mock terror. “Oh, whatever shall I do? The big, scary EMT is coming for me, fellas! I’m gonna get soaked!”

“It’s for a good cause, crybaby!” Steve called out in an uncharacteristic, unsympathetic bellow.

“Someone’s bloodthirsty,” Nat teased.

“Thirsty,” Steve corrected. “That’s Bucky, being thirsty.”

Bucky wound up and threw. He barely nicked the target, making it rattle a little.

Clint’s grin faltered a notch. “Oh, shit…”

“This is gonna be great,” Nat purred, folding her arms.

Bucky wound up and threw again, this time a narrow, but still complete miss. 

“Oh, someone’s gonna run out of ammo!”

“You suck, Barton!” Steve called out.

“HEY!”

But Clint caught Bucky’s eye, and they shared a look. _Do you?_ Bucky mouthed.

Clint nodded, and that undid Bucky’s resolve.

Bucky took a hope-to-heaven shot and let that ball fly. It zoomed through the air, squarely hitting its target, and Clint let out a little whoop of terror as he realized what Bucky had done. The impact triggered the drop-arm, and Clint plunged into the tank. He sputtered and gagged, blowing water out of his nose, and he slapped at the water in annoyance. 

“ShitshitshitSHITthat’sCOLD,” he insisted, and he climbed back up onto the dunking seat, taking a minute to wring out the hem of his shirt and scrape his hair back out of his eyes. It was plastered over his brow, and it sprang into uneven little spikes when he ran his hand through it.

_Transparent. Completely see-through._

That white shirt clung to Clint, encasing every inch of his toned body in wet cotton. His nipples pebbled into hard, dark little peaks. His pants looked tighter now that they were wet, and that body was still framed by those ridiculous suspenders. The water turned his light blond hair honey gold.

Clint fucking Barton looked _good_ when he was soaking wet, and Bucky wanted to take him home and peel those clothes off of him and climb him like a tree. Clint climbed back onto the seat, and Bucky realize he still had a few balls left.

“Betcha can’t do that again, Ambulance Jockey!” Clint taunted.

And just like that, Bucky let another ball fly, hitting the target with as much accuracy as the first, and down into the tank Clint dropped. He came back up sputtering and soaked, much to Bucky’s - and Steve and Natasha’s - delight.

“Okay. Never mind. I’m enjoying this,” Steve insisted. 

“That’s a good look on you, Barton!” Bucky called out.

“Hey, I know that!” Clint shot back. Clint pretended to be washing himself, scrubbing his armpits through the paper-thin shirt.

Clint was a good sport. The crowd was drawn by the banter between the paramedics and firefighters. Clint stayed up more often than he went down, until the barrel of balls was emptied. 

Just to add insult to injury, Steve dunked Clint on the first try. 

“What the hell, Rogers?!”

“I played baseball in high school, too,” Steve informed him. Clint smothered curses as he climbed out of the tank, finally, and climbed down the small ladder on the side to the ground. He stood in his bare feet, and he eyed Bucky sharply.

“C’mere, pal. Give your old pal Barton a hug. You know you want to. You look a little hot under the collar.”

“Barton, don’t…! You wouldn’t… oh, shit!” Bucky took off running, and Clint whooped as he sprinted after Bucky in his bare feet. And if that wasn’t a little bit of a turn-on, hearing Clint panting as he ran after him, dripping, darting through the crowd as he eventually caught up to him and tackle-glomped him…

“Oh, my God! Oh, my God, you’re so clammy right now!”

“Awwwwww!” Clint was cackling and hugging him, soaking Bucky’s clothes while Bucky tried to push him off, but they were both snickering.

“You’re demented.”

“Never said I wasn’t,” Clint teased.

“There’s kids watching!”

“Aren’t any at my place.”

Bucky pulled himself loose and stared down at his now-splotched, damp clothes, giving Clint a little shove, but then, he tugged him over by his suspenders.

“C’mere.” Bucky leaned up and kissed the underside of Clint’s jaw, just a teasing peck, but before Clint could react, he put some distance between them again, rushing off to help the volunteers to pick up and collect the softballs. Clint saw the want in those blue-gray eyes bordering on eager. _Okay._

One of the volunteers, an older woman named May with sable brown hair hanging past her shoulders and dark-rimmed reading glasses, told him “Get that boy’s number. What on earth are you waiting for?”

“I don’t want him to get the seat of my bike wet,” Bucky told her. “I just want him to dry off first.”

“That’s going to take too long.”

Clint must have thought the same thing. “Hey.” He approached Bucky, and he took him in at his leisure. Wet. Smug. Definitely flirting with Bucky. “There’s a men’s room inside, just down the hall to the right. It’d only take me a minute to pull myself together.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I am a fireman. Doesn’t take me long to get changed at _all_.”

*

Apparently not.

It took Clint even less time to get undressed. His apartment, true to Natasha’s claim, was an absolute pigsty, but Bucky ignored it, stumbling over discarded shoes and sports equipment as Clint unlocked his door and pushed them inside.

Bucky fisted his hand in Clint’s shirt collar and dragged him down by it, kissing him satisfyingly hard. Clint hummed his approval, just wanting to get his hands on him, anywhere. The height difference was striking but not a barrier to kissing him. Bucky didn’t mind craning his neck up a little and draining kisses from that mouth. Clint’s lips were firm and hot, and Bucky was pulling aside those suspenders, tugging them down, and Clint reached and tugged up the hem of his shirt from his pants, exposing his abdomen. Bucky helped him pull it the rest of the way off. 

“Jesus, Barton, look at you…”

“Look at you,” Clint muttered. “You’re fucking gorgeous, Buck. C’mere.”

Their shirts were peeled away and their hands roamed over heated skin. Bucky left his earwig in his fanny pack and his baseball cap on the counter. Clint’s palms skimmed over Bucky’s narrow waist, finding the button on his fly, tugging down the zipper of his Dickies.

Bucky stripped Clint out of the rest of his turnout gear, and they stumbled toward his bedroom, both gloriously bare. Clint’s fingers tangled in Bucky’s hair, and he pulled on it, exposing his throat so he could trace it with the flat of his tongue. Bucky writhed against him, feeling hot waves of pleasure in his stomach at that caress. His arms tightened around Clint’s neck.

“Barton… fuck. Feels good… feels so good.”

“Please tell me you brought something. Protection,” Clint begged. Bucky paused a moment, eyes widening in annoyance, until Clint gave him a break. “Just fucking with you. Of course I have some. I wouldn’t have invited you here without it.”

“Punk,” Bucky accused.

“Aw, Bucky, no,” Clint argued. He tickled his sides and kissed him in entreaty. “C’mon. M’just giving you shit. I wouldn’t do that if I didn’t like you.”

“That’s what they all say.” But Bucky leaned up for more heated kisses, and he shoved him back until he felt back onto the bed. Bucky followed Clint down, sliding down against him. Clint brought up his thigh between Bucky’s, letting him mount its hard, smooth slope as he moved against him. Clint laved Bucky’s throat, down along his collarbones and pecs, exploring his hard, straining nipples with his mouth. Bucky ground down against him, effectively riding Clint’s thigh and continuing to submit to those kisses and the hands exploring him. Clint’s hands traced the line of Bucky’s back, sculpting those muscles with his hot palms.

“You taste so good…”

“You haven’t tasted the good parts yet.”

“They’re all good parts so far, but I’ll get to it. Don’t rush me, Buck. I don’t like having to rush when I’m having fun.” He lapped at his nipple again, swirling the tip of his tongue around it, satisfied with the way that it made Bucky shudder and gasp. Bucky shifted himself down and ground against Clint’s burgeoning hardness, building a little friction to keep him interested, and they grew lost in a crush of kisses, making all coherent thought vanish.

Bucky’s face went slack, pupils dilating when Clint’s calloused, lubricated finger breached him, stroking him in time with the upward, insistent thrust of his hips. 

“I like it when you make that sound.”

“ _Clint._ ”

“And when you say my name like _that_.” Clint twisted his hand, stroking him and teasing him a little more, taking his sweet time. Bucky sat up, kneeling over him so that his body was on full display, tempting and rippling with muscle. Bucky reached for Clint’s botle of lube on the nightstand, squirted a bit into his palm, and ringed them both in his fist.

It was worth it for the way Clint arched, and the choked sound of pleasure he made. Bucky pumped them both while Clint resumed stretching him and slowly opening him up, Bucky felt himself begin to leak as the heat built between them, but he didn’t want to rush this either. Not when it took this long to get Clint where he wanted him, sprawled out beneath him atop the rumpled sheets, all tan lines, freckles and sinewy limbs. Those robin’s egg blue eyes blazed up at him with passion.

“Lift those hips up for me a little. Tell me if you can take a little more, baby.”

Bucky smirked. “We’re calling me baby, now?”

“Bucky’s my baby, now,” Clint teased, and Bucky shook his head and laughed, but he tilted his hips up a little and was rewarded by the sensation of a second finger pushing inside him, creating a snug little burn.

“Gotta work on your pet names, Barton.” Bucky leaned down and kissed him, though, dawdling over it, exploring Clint’s mouth, “I like the part where you said I’m yours, though.”

“Good,” Clint husked before he rolled them over, 

If Clint looked good wet and dripping outside on a sunny afternoon, he looked even better now looming over Bucky, naked and skin glowing with a sheen of sweat, with his blond hair a tousled wreck. By the time Clint finished working him open, Bucky was a begging, cursing mess. He reached down and rolled the condom down Barton’s length, feeling his hand shake a little, and he guided him home as Clint slowly sank down into him with deliberate thrusts, groaning at how snug Bucky felt.

“Jesus, Bucky…”

Bucky’s world whited out for a few seconds. All he managed was a shaky, hoarse, “Yes. Please.”

_Yes. Please. Please, Clint. Harder. More._

Those words tumbled from Bucky’s mouth and invaded Clint’s consciousness as he rode him, feeling Bucky’s hands on him, stroking him, groping him, holding onto him for dear life. Those wiry, muscular legs were wrapped around Clint’s ribs, and Clint kept on leaning down for more kisses, because how could he not? 

How could he _not_. It was Bucky. This was Bucky, finally where he wanted him after all the too-brief meetings and random chats, wondering when they wouldn’t be too busy to get into a little trouble together.

*

“What do you use on your hair?”

“Whatever the conditioner was that my barber sent me home with last time I got it trimmed,” Bucky admitted.

“It feels nice. It’s all silky and shit.”

Bucky snorted and his arm tightened around Clint’s rib cage. Clint just kept stroking his hair while they sprawled in the afterglow. The room smelled like sex. Clint’s dog was scratching outside the door, waiting to check out Clint’s houseguest and go out for a walk. Clint just wanted another minute. Just another few minutes to enjoy this. Bucky listened to Clint’s slow, steady heartbeat, lulled by the feeling of those calloused fingers roaming his skin. 

“I’ve gotta head home soon and study for my mid-terms. I got into microbiology this semester.”

“Aw, no. Bucky, no,” Clint whined. “Don’t go. I was going to take you out with my dog on our walk and order pizza and then pretend that I just wanted to watch Netflix with you and then invite you back here for round two. Or three.”

Bucky snickered, and he leaned up and kissed him, then again. And again. “Sorry, pal. Duty calls.”

“God, it always does. And my schedule sucks for the rest of the week.”

“Guess I’ll just see you around the next time something catches on fire.”

“Bullshit. You’re giving me your number. I’m not just gonna wait until the next time you’re just randomly showing up at the scene of the next clusterfuck so I can see that pretty face.”

Clint felt his chest shake and heard the crack of his smile against his chest. “Why does that sound like you ‘like me,’ like me?”

“Does not.”

“Does, too.”

“You’re a little shit, you know that?”

“Now you know what you’re getting into. Too late, now.”

Clint sighed in contentment, tightening his arms around him. “Good.”

*

Natasha hovered by the nursing station desk in the ED, sipping a cup of the terrible hospital coffee that she’d snuck out of the break room on that floor. She watched Sam Wilson enter through the door with his badge from the corridor, mouthwatering in his dark blue scrubs and paper cap.

“Hey, Wilson.”

He beamed at her as he took the chart from the secretary for the patient he was about to wheel down to Surgery. “Hey, cutie pie. You keep giving me more work to do, just bringing them in every five minutes.”

“Job security.” Then she had a sudden inspiration. “Hey. Next week, we’re hosting a car wash. The paramedic crew. We’re raising more money for the children’s wing.”

“That’s cool. Where is it, again?”

“At the high school parking lot.”

“Sweet! I haven’t washed my car yet from that trip home that I took to see Mom. Every fly in a hundred-mile radius got stuck to my windshield.”

Nat’s eyes gleaemed with mischief. “Yeah. So. Steve is going to be out there washing cars.”

Sam’s brow quirked. “You don’t say.”

“Yup.” Natasha took a sip of her coffee. “I’m planning to let the hose slip just once. He won’t mind. I think he likes getting wet.”

Sam snickered. “I might go just to see that.”

Natasha was _counting_ on it.

It was fun to multitask.


End file.
